Early on, my grandpa and dad began to keep secrets from Uncle Buddy, with the notebook being a prime example.
My uncle thought they were excluding him and grew to hate them for it.
They did it to protect him from the Outfit because they loved him.
My dad’s concern for his brother is contained in a letter to me, folded into the notebook. It’s dated a year before the disappearance, which means he’d been considering telling me about our family for a long time. Its tone is apologetic and vague-he regrets what I’ve probably learned from the notebook but can’t state anything explicitly for fear of the letter falling into the wrong hands. He says that he began as counselor-at-large before my grandpa died (I wondered why he often worked late-who has to work late baking cookies?) and mentions that he and my mom have a plan to “free the family,” which must be a reference to their whispered conversations. He tells me to watch out for Uncle Buddy (good advice) but also to watch over him (not going to happen) and then relates an odd anecdote that I think was an attempt to tell me something without saying it. Apparently, Nunzio had a special way with animals (like Lou with Harry) and kept two unusual pets.
A pair of rats.
The big gray type with worm tails that dine and swim in the sewers of Chicago.
Nunzio called them Antonio and Cleopatra.
He knew that if he fed them and provided a warm place to live-Club Molasses-they would guard their territory, family, and all things Rispoli with ferocity. Antonio and Cleopatra bred and bred, and soon they and their offspring were patrolling the speakeasy like stealthy packs of tiny Dobermans. I have no doubt it was Antonio and Cleopatra’s great-grandchildren who sensed a Rispoli in trouble and saved me at the train station.
Antonio-Anthony-is my dad’s name.
Was he named after a rat?
Is that what he was trying to tell me-that he had become one?
So far, it’s a question that even the notebook can’t answer. What endless hours of reading has made clear, however, is that the Outfit has no code of honor, no ethnic allegiance, and no loyalty. There is only the accumulation of power and its twin purposes of making money and destroying people who try to take that money away. I’m sure that’s why Great-Grandpa Nunzio began writing things down-he did it to protect himself, by recording secrets about and evidence against other Outfit members in case he ever needed leverage.
But then he went further.
In great detail, he documented the locations of secret escape routes all over Chicago, while also providing the confidential contact numbers for nameless, dangerous allies and the passwords needed to access them, putting a shadow army of homicidal thugs at his fingertips. It was a practice carried on by Grandpa Enzo and my dad; they each updated those invaluable Outfit secrets to their respective generations. And then there’s the last chapter, “Volta,” written in some form of incomprehensible Italian, and the mystery key taped to the inside back cover-I’m sure the power contained in those words and that jagged hunk of brass is considerable. Why else would they be disguised and unexplained? It was that very realization-the cumulative power of its pages-that turned on a lightbulb for me. The notebook isn’t a family history, and it isn’t an archive of criminal evidence.
It’s an instruction manual for operating the Outfit, from its secretive, singular boss at the very top of the organization, down to its soldiers on the street.
There is a kind of danger on those pages that can strike and kill quickly, quietly, and efficiently.
It’s a leather-bound nuclear weapon, and I won’t hesitate to use it.
17
After what seemed like an eternity of running and fighting for my life, making it back to school was a relief, but also surreal, as if I’d stepped into the calm, orderly existence of that previous Sara Jane. I was standing outside of homeroom, my face knit with hatred as I thought about how I planned to deploy the notebook’s power on that masked, lurching freak, when someone said hi.
“Hey,” I growled without looking up.
That was how I said hello to Max when I finally saw him.
After a whirlwind of fleeing, punching, and reading, I’d cocooned into something slightly less than human-a defensive, monosyllabic armadillo girl, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. But when I looked up at Max’s grin and warm brown eyes, my heart began to beat again. I was so happy to see him that it was almost impossible to stifle a hug. He was too, but not romantic happy; his expression was mainly friendly, and it hurt as much as getting punched by Ski Mask Guy.
“Jeez,” he said, inspecting my face. “You got hit hard, huh? Is that why you were out for so long?”
I had already told Max that I was a boxer. He knew I sparred regularly, and I went with it. I told him about a tough opponent I faced at Windy City, how the freak dodged and weaved, but that I intended to take him down in the future.
“A rematch, huh?” he said.
“Definitely,” I said. “It’s inevitable.”
One of the best things about Fep Prep is that it allows my mind to take a much-needed rest from my troubles, and being with Max only made it better. We ate lunch together and talked about nothing in particular-his week, what I missed at school, what we each had planned for summer break. It felt so good, like my brain was purging itself of urgency and fear, and I said, “Hey, what about Ten Seconds to Zero? Did you see it?”
Max’s face changed. It went from relaxed to concerned, and he said, “Movies. . that reminds me. Have you talked to Doug?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen him yet. Why, what happened?”
“Something bad,” Max said solemnly. “Something very bad.”
He explained how Doug had brought his precious About Face screenplay to a discussion in social sciences class, since, in Doug’s words, the film “offers a succinct analysis of nonviolence that is still applicable to our geopolitical world,” or something. He was crossing campus when Bully the Kid spotted him, and at first it seemed like the same old thing, with Billy calling him idiotic names while Doug went into emotional lockdown and Billy’s entourage of morons stood around yukking it up. But this time was different. This time, for whatever reason-maybe it was confidence from having just discussed About Face or maybe he’d finally had enough-Doug had the nerve to say something. When there was a lull in the taunting, he cleared his throat and said, “Your eyes are really close together.”
Billy paused, scrunched up his monkey forehead, and said, “Huh?”
“Close-set eyes,” Doug said. “They’re a genetic indicator of mental disabilities.”
Someone snickered and Billy’s neck turned red. He moved closer to Doug and said, “Mental dis- Wait, are you calling me a retard?”
“From a cognitive function standpoint, ‘retard’ is an unacceptable term,” Doug said. “But using it as slang certainly applies.”
Billy’s eyes got smaller as he said, “Is that a yes?”
Doug said, “Possibly.”
Billy smiled in a slow, toothy curl and said, “It’s on!” and shoved Doug to the ground. Doug rolled like a human burrito and struggled to his feet. Billy pushed him again, and the screenplay skittered across the grass. “I won’t fight back!” Doug huffed. “Push me all you want! I won’t fight!” But Billy wasn’t listening. Instead he was holding the screenplay, staring at the title page.